“The only thing that could spoil Christmas now,” said an anxious Martha, stooping to pick up a string from the floor, “would be that some of the younger children who have been sending letters to Santa Claus for automobiles and hill-coasters may be disappointed by ten-cent toys.”
“I know children,” said the Chief Emancipator. “They are not half as mercenary as we think. Play is what they love. They will never think of hill-coasters on the happy day when the grown people come to their senses and give themselves up to fun.”
Noël, Noël, Noël, Noël,
Born was the King of Israel!
Did you ever wake on a Christmas morning to the sound of fresh voices singing at your door and the soft swish of a redwood bough across your window-pane—eyes opening upon walls as bare as the walls of a stable, and the smell and feel of Christmas in the air of your naked little room?
The first Noël, the angels did say,
Was to certain poor shepherds, in fields as they lay,
In fields as they lay, keeping their sheep,
On a cold winter’s night that was so deep.
Noël, Noël, Noël, Noël,